


outsteps infinity

by finalizer



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 18:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21462814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: This Oliver, the one in front of him, was different. He’d found him, against all odds. He wanted him, after everything. He loved him, more than anything.
Relationships: Oliver Marks/James Farrow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96





	outsteps infinity

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to write oliver calling james _sweet prince_ and this whole thing somehow happened
> 
> big big thanks to [kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil) for the support (again)

The dreams were always the same.

Hot blood spraying across his face. Fingers frozen in place, clenched around a glistening red hook. Lights glimmering like endless stars over a mirrored stage. Oliver, beside him, facing Colborne with unwavering certainty. _Are you ready to tell me the truth? Yes, I am._ The words echoing, echoing. The red and blue shadows of a departing squad car. The emptiness. The rage._ Please, James, don’t undo what I’ve done._ Stupid, miserable heartache. Oliver, solemn through the steel bars. And again, and again. The dark expanse of road. The hollow rattle of a pill bottle. The crunch of brittle snow beneath his boots as he left his car behind. The searing pain of the ice-cold water. Rising up to meet him, up, up, up. Paralyzing, deafening, suffocating.

A pause. A sliver of clarity. That hadn't happened. He hadn't taken anything. He’d walked the other way. But the water was in his lungs now and his vision blurred and blackened, and everything was cold so cold, and his chest heaved but he couldn't breathe and he grasped blindly upwards to claw at the retreating surface but the water still dragged him down, and it was dark and he couldn't feel anything, anything, and he tried to scream but no sound came out and he sank down, down—

Everything was panic, singular and overwhelming. For a moment he was suspended in nothing; feeling, seeing, hearing nothing. Then came a whine, low and frightened, and he thought it might have been him. The blood rushed in his ears, his heart pounded an erratic staccato against his ribcage. He felt himself shaking, trembling from the impossible cold. Dying, dying, dying.

Out of nowhere a voice rang out; repeated the same words, over and over, growing louder. Desperate. Familiar, somehow.

_“It’s not real.”_

The words were hazy, muddled. He was underwater and they came from above, from beyond the ice that’d frozen over. There was a golden light somewhere in the distance, a lighthouse calling him home. He felt his fingertips twitch. Regained feeling. A foreign warmth circled his wrists, firm yet gentle. The soft sheets rippled beneath him.

Bedsheets. Bed. Home. Oliver.

There was no snow. There was no water.

_“James, it’s not real.”_

Consciousness came hurtling and struck him with violent, brutal force. His eyes snapped open and air filled his lungs so suddenly he thought he might choke. The hands at his wrists ran up his arms, curled at his neck; the warmth, the weight, everything so familiar. Oliver cradled him like a precious gem; palms slotted against his jaw, thumbs brushing his lips. He was saying something again, hushed and frantic, but James couldn't quite pick out the words. He watched Oliver’s mouth and tried to concentrate on reading his face, the way his brows knit together, the pink flush of his cheeks, tried to pinpoint all the little signs that reminded him this was real, that he was no longer dreaming.

Dream Oliver was wicked. Dream Oliver stayed put on his bare, little cot in his bare, little cell and shook his head cruelly as James begged him to tell the truth. Dream Oliver watched blankly as James plunged into the depths.

This Oliver, the one in front of him, was different. He’d found him, against all odds. He wanted him, after everything. He loved him, more than anything.

“Just breathe. Focus on that, okay?”

This Oliver had clear blue eyes that shone in the warm light of the lamp at their bedside. He had golden brown hair that curled every which way, and rough hands that felt so startlingly gentle against James’ clammy skin.

He blinked and there was another jolt, and everything came flooding back as though a switch had been flicked. The summer air: sticky, stuffy, humid. The starless navy blue of the sky past the open windows, past the curtains that did not billow. The blaring noise of the street down below. (Home, they were home. He was safe.) The up and down of his own chest and the comforting, almost palpable hum of Oliver’s presence beside him.

He was awake now, completely and painfully. He sat against the headboard with his knees drawn sloppily to his chest, amidst sheets and blankets that he’d kicked into a tangle. He felt queasy, suddenly. Too hot, head spinning, limbs like lead. Too aware of everything—the tremble of his breath, the electric buzz of the alarm clock, the way his sweaty clothes clung to his body and the way Oliver clung to him. He knelt between James’ legs, sitting back on his heels; brushed sweet, nonsensical patterns over James’ cheekbones.

“There you are,” he murmured. The raw affection in his tone made James dizzy. He couldn't fathom how he had this. He’d ruined everything and never paid the price, let Oliver suffer for his wrongdoings and never did a thing to stop it. _I can’t let you do this. I can’t do this anymore_. Empty words, unfulfilled promises. And Oliver, stupid Oliver, when he’d walked free, had uprooted everything to find James again, because James had been too weak to disappear without leaving a trace, a hint, a plea. He’d found him and kept him and told him there was nothing to forgive but himself.

James swallowed hard and his throat ached.

“Water?” Oliver asked, as though he’d felt it too.

He pulled his hands away, taking the warmth and safety with them, and rocked back like he meant to tumble neatly off the bed to fetch a glass from the kitchen, and James reached out before he even realized he was doing it and clutched Oliver’s wrists before he could leave. Unyielding, distressed, the same way Oliver had held him just moments before.

“Don’t go,” he rasped. “S’fine.”

He swallowed again, and it hurt; he was nowhere near fine but he didn't want to be alone. He watched Oliver watch him and wondered what Oliver saw: tired, colorless eyes, red blotches on puffy cheeks, dried tears he didn't remember shedding. A harrowing picture. Instead of bolting, Oliver scooted forward (close, close, so close) and something pleasant and reassuring settled in the pit of James’ stomach, dispelling the dread.

“Stay here,” he said, just in case, because dream Oliver hadn’t.

This Oliver, the real Oliver, flinched at the pitiful tone of James’ voice like it’d hurt him, cut him deep. His lips quivered and his hands fluttered back to James’ face to assure him he wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't pity, and James was glad. He didn't want to be coddled. Both of them needed the same — someone to offer a shred of comfort when everything became too much, who held and listened, someone to love with every cell, every molecule, every last ounce of strength, who helped to glue the broken pieces back together again.

The silence stretched out for a single second before the distance between them flickered out of existence and Oliver’s mouth was on his, and everything was okay. Oliver leaned into it, conveying with his body all the things he didn't have words for. He kissed James deeply and retreated too soon, then swooped back in to shower him with tiny kisses, over and over again until James cracked a grin despite himself. They pulled apart and left an inch of air to breathe, if only for a moment. Oliver muttered a careful, “You alright?” and James nodded—everything was perfect now—and Oliver fumbled to switch off the lamp. Then, another kiss, and another. Hands in James’ hair and Oliver’s weight pressing down on him like he could somehow, miraculously kiss him harder, melt into it until they were one and the same, forever inseparable.

Oliver’s arms snaked around his waist and dragged him off the backboard, down to the middle of the bed. He sprawled flat on his back, loose-limbed and content and strangely giddy, until Oliver gracefully twirled them around so they lay facing each other, side by side in the darkness, mirrored smiles and a decade of longing between them. An airy laugh broke the silence and James didn't know, didn't care which one of them had let it slip. The last remnants of that coiled tension in his chest unspooled. And then it was quiet. Still. Idyllic. A split-second frozen in time.

Oliver brushed the hair away from James’ face where it’d fallen across his forehead and let his hand rest there, against his brow bone, so, so softly like James would shatter otherwise, if he pressed too hard. It wasn't enough. James leaned into it.

They discarded the blankets completely, kicked them to the bottom of the bed like children throwing a tantrum. Neither had been willing to forsake their embrace to break free and fold them. Resolutely ignoring the merciless July heat and their broken AC, despite their sticky, sweaty skin, Oliver wedged his knee between both of James’ and tucked himself closer. With the hand that wasn't pillowing his head, Oliver ran his fingertips over James’ chest, flattened his palm against his collarbone, felt the heat of his skin through his ancient white t-shirt. An echo, a memory of another time, another touch.

James lay with his hands in the space between them, limp against the sheets, too distracted to move when Oliver’s hand travelled to his face instead, brushing over his brows, his lashes, like he was trying to memorize it all.

It was the middle of the night but the street outside bustled—cars and people and music droning on from nowhere in particular. It was easy enough to tune out. Here it was just them, and everything else faded to black, falling away like the heavy velvet of a curtain sliding closed. It had always been this way with Oliver. In his presence, James could focus only on him. The line of his jaw, the curve of his back, the expanse of skin nowhere near as pale as his own that James fervently wished to learn every inch of, with his hands, with his mouth. Oliver’s ears, the way they stuck out when he cut his hair too short. His blue eyes, pure like the sea, nothing like the frigid waters up north, and the way they betrayed everything Oliver felt, how they crinkled at the edges and gleamed when he looked at James in the dark.

And James, with his heart twisting in his chest, looked back.

Visibly unable to hold back, Oliver surged forward and kissed James again, soft but determined. Like he couldn't get enough, like he was making up for lost time, like he longed to commit the taste of him to memory to tuck away for when they were apart. He brushed his lips across the bridge of James’ nose, his forehead, over his eyelids, and the gentle warmth of it ached so wonderfully James thought he might die.

Oliver held on like he meant to protect him. _Again—_recklessly, thoughtlessly, like throwing his life away for James was a bad habit he couldn't quite shake. Yet it felt immeasurably good, the body against his, and exhaustion caught up with James so suddenly, unexpectedly, that he wished for nothing more than to sink into the mattress forever. He knew that when he woke Oliver would still be there. They had eternity, theirs for the taking.

His eyes drooped and Oliver smiled. He leaned in close, whispered, _“My sweet prince,”_ like it was a secret nobody but James could know; those words that made the churning hurt, the guilt, the sorrow in James’ chest recede a bit further every time. It felt like hope. A vow, that one day he would be whole again. He pushed forward and pressed his lips to Oliver’s once more, short and chaste, to cement the promise.

James tangled their hands on the cooling sheets between them, fingers tightly intertwined—a foolish hero and unwilling villain given another chance, a happy ending to their wretched tragedy. He watched the lines of Oliver’s face smooth out, watched his eyes fall shut. He matched his breaths, in and out, in and out, felt it echoed in the steady beat of his heart, and let the world melt away.

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from this piece which may or may not be a sonnet, wish i knew, wish google provided some solid answers, all i know is that it made me yearn beyond belief—sincerest apologies to shakespeare if i'm mistaken  
  
_For it is too much_  
_That such a thing should be and I should live. _  
_Surely the thought is greater than reality,_  
_The sum of you and love outsteps infinity_  
  
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